


One Luminary Clock

by lawsofchaos



Category: Shadowhunters (TV), The Shadowhunter Chronicles - All Media Types
Genre: (spoilers in AN), Alec Lightwood Deserves Nice Things, Angst with a Happy Ending, Father-Son Relationship, Implied/Referenced Sexual Assault, M/M, Magnus Bane Deserves Nice Things, POV Outsider, That DOES NOT actually happen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-11
Updated: 2021-02-11
Packaged: 2021-03-17 20:15:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,852
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29356317
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lawsofchaos/pseuds/lawsofchaos
Summary: Coda Fic toNever Judge A Shadowhunter By Their Scentwritten by the delightfulAria Lerendeair.Selected moments from Isaiah's POV.~Lighting the small candle, Isaiah centers it on the altar and stares at the wavering flame for a long moment. For the first time since his wife’s death, Isaiah feels a single tear slip down the crags of his scarred cheek.He drops heavily to his knees before the altar and looks up towards the silent angel above him, vision blurring.“Zadkiel,” Isaiah prays,pleads, his voice rough and hoarse, “Angel of mercy and benevolence, I beg you tonight to watch over your child, Alexander Lightwood. He has survived everything the angels have seen fit to test him with, but please,pleasedo not make this night one more thing he has tosurvive.”
Relationships: Alec Lightwood & OC, Magnus Bane/Alec Lightwood
Comments: 136
Kudos: 524
Collections: Suggested Good Reads





	One Luminary Clock

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Aria_Lerendeair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria_Lerendeair/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Never Judge A Shadowhunter By Their Scent](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253954) by [Aria_Lerendeair](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Aria_Lerendeair/pseuds/Aria_Lerendeair). 



> A major thank you to the _lovely_ Aria Lerendeair for this amazing smooshing of our various works lol. The fic that Aria wrote ([Never Judge A Shadowhunter By Their Scent](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29253954)) is pure joy (and tears of course) to read, and I was _delighted_ that Aria choose to borrow my favorite OC, Isaiah Brownfoot, from my fic [Dona Nobis Pacem](https://archiveofourown.org/works/26301967). As for this piece, thank you for letting me play in _your_ sandbox this time, love ❤️
> 
> This is the line Aria sent me that prompted this entire fic: "He's survived everything you have seen fit to challenge him with. But please, please do not make this one more thing he has to survive. Please."
> 
> For those of you that aren't familiar, Isaiah is an older Shadowhunter that's been Alec's mentor and father figure since Alec began running the Institute in his early teens (when Bad Parents Maryse and Robert disappeared to Idris). 
> 
> (Spoilers regarding the discussion of implied sexual assault are listed them in AN at the end of the fic. You're welcome to ask for details in the comments as well if I don't mention what you're worried about.)

_“But not to call me back or say good-bye;_

_And further still at an unearthly height,_

_One luminary clock against the sky”_

_-Robert Frost_

Stepping onto the Ops floor, Isaiah weaves his way through the skeleton crew manning the stations. With near twenty percent of their active Shadowhunters either in the infirmary or temporarily tasked there to deal with the thousands of things that need to be done in aid of their recovery, there are far too many monitors competing for the attention of too few observers. Isaiah can’t make himself offer his usual advice to those struggling, however, pale gaze fixed on his destination before he eventually comes to a stop next to Andrew in the far corner, slightly removed from the activity of the main floor.

Isaiah swallows harshly, his hands clenching helplessly at his sides as he joins the Head of Security in observing the well-organized chaos before them. A single glance at Andrew’s face and Isaiah doesn’t need to ask to know.

“He left while I was in training then.”

Andrew remains gazing forward, doesn’t turn to face him, something raw and burning in his eyes. Fingers twitch helplessly at Andrew’s side, the motion the same that would send a lethally sharp hold-out dagger into his palm if Isaiah hadn’t watched Andrew purposefully remove it before acting as Magnus Bane’s escort earlier that evening.

“He did.”

Isaiah remains utterly motionless.

Andrew’s breathing is carefully even at his side, too even to be natural, and Isaiah makes himself match it, following the pattern closely in a futile attempt to bank the liquid, helpless rage flowing through his veins.

The long silence is eventually broken by Andrew pulling up a file on a nearby tablet and passing it to Isaiah.

“I know he won’t tell them,” Andrew starts as Isaiah looks blankly at an amendment for the coming week’s patrol roster, “but, I thought he may… _need_ them anyways.” Andrew pauses, still looking straight ahead. “Jace has been complaining for weeks about Alec being too busy to patrol with them. I figure-“ Andrew cuts himself off, searching for words. “I thought with Isabelle having been one of the infected, they wouldn’t question why Alec might change the patrol schedule to spend some extra time with them.”

Isaiah breathes in. Tries to temper the maelstrom in his brain so he doesn’t scream in wordless fury when he opens his mouth. His voice ends up coming out suspiciously flat instead. “I’ll approve the change if Alec is - “ he tamps his emotions down again, swallowing fruitlessly. “If Alec is in a place to do so in the morning.”

Andrew flinches and they lapse back into silence.

________________

Carla Mayweather is sleeping peacefully in her infirmary bed with Iris Haywood curled up furtively at her side in direct contradiction of the nurse’s orders. Isaiah saw the paperwork the two submitted to Alec and Jace last week though, a request for counseling to determine their parabatai potential, the very first step in matching, and Isaiah waves off the medical staff when they notice the pair’s location. If they’re anything like Alec and Jace had been at that age, separating them wouldn’t do any good for either.

The two had been scheduled to meet with New York’s resident parabatai yesterday morning, but Isaiah doubts even the girls themselves remembered in the chaos of the outbreak.

Isaiah doesn’t know how long he watches them sleep, watches all twenty-seven of their precious, _healthy_ children sleep before Iris stirs at the slam of door somewhere outside the infirmary.

She blinks, slow and confused, lifting her head from where it was pillowed on Carla’s arm. Iris had been one of the last of the children to fall ill, and the healing had still left her dazed and groggy. Carla herself has yet to even twitch, though the warlocks had sworn she would wake whole and hale sometime in the following afternoon.

“Deputy Commander?” Iris murmurs, voice low. Even their children know well-enough the unwritten rules of the halls for the injured.

“All is well, Iris,” Isaiah murmurs soothingly. “I just wanted to check on you all.”

Iris twists her head further towards him, eyes clearing slightly though not yet fully tracking. “The Commander was here earlier too,” she whispers.

Isaiah carefully doesn’t react. “Was he?” He questions softly.

Iris nods muzzily. “Mr. Lightwood said-“ and Iris breaks off to yawn widely. “He said he was on his way to deliver payment to the High Warlock.”

Isaiah’s breath freezes in his chest, an icy yaw of pain and anguish.

He doesn’t know how he finds the air to speak again, doesn’t know how he modulates his tone into something approaching soothing, but he does. “Did he say anything else, little one?”

Iris’ eyes are already slipping closed, her head turning back so that she can nuzzle up against Carla’s side.

“Just-“ and Iris yawns agains, eyes fully closed now. “Just that we were worth it - no matter the cost.”

__________________

The last time Isaiah had gone down on his knees and prayed to the Angel, his wife was still alive and the scar down his face had been a bloody, unhealed slash.

He slips silently through the heavy wooden doors leading into the Institute’s massive, soaring cathedral and breathes in the smoky dregs of incense, hundreds of prayer candles still slowly burning out the final, desperate hopes of dozens from before the warlocks had agreed to heal the NYI’s people.

The cathedral has been host to an ever-rotating group of nephilim the past few days, but it’s utterly deserted now. Well past midnight and a new moon, the flickering candles from the prayer votives are the only light, barely enough to cast shadows from the monumental columns and the towering statue of the vengeful Angel in the center of the nave.

Alone, footsteps padding him softly to the base of Raziel, Isaiah feels _small_ and dwarfed as he starts to kneel, something twisting deep in his chest the same way it did fifteen years ago when the Shax demon’s claw had pierced his wife’s heart. He continues forward instead.

His breath shudders in his chest and Isaiah’s steps take him deeper into the cathedral proper, past the raised dais where Alec had knelt several years ago among burning sunlight and the cheers of thousands of his people to accept the Headship of the New York Institute.

When Isaiah finally stops, he finds himself in front of a small alcove, dusty from lack of of use. Throat tight, Isaiah takes off his over-shirt and gently cleans both the altar and the small figure of the kneeling angel above it. Task done, he lays the over-shirt aside on the floor and retrieves a single prayer candle from the front of the cathedral, the dedicated bin in this particular alcove long since gone missing.

Lighting the small candle, Isaiah centers it on the altar and stares at the wavering flame for a long moment. For the first time since his wife’s death, Isaiah feels a single tear slip down the crags of his scarred cheek.

He drops heavily to his knees before the altar and looks up towards the silent angel above him, vision blurring.

“Zadkiel,” Isaiah prays, _pleads,_ his voice rough and hoarse, “Angel of mercy and benevolence, I beg you tonight to watch over your child, Alexander Lightwood. He has survived everything the angels have seen fit to test him with, but please, _please_ do not make this night one more thing he has to _survive_.”

Isaiah has been the first on scene too many times to find terrified and desperate young women and men, flinching from touch, refusing to look anyone in the eye. He’s held too many that have finally broken down in the safe refuge of his arms, but he’s seen even more whose eyes have forever lost their spark instead, dull and listless and dead.

He cannot bear to imagine that same deadness in Alec’s eyes, and another tear joins those already trailing down his cheeks as he kneels on the bare, unadorned flagstones. He has raised Alec far more than Robert and Maryse had ever bothered to even try. They may not have spoken the words between them, but Isaiah is the one who had stood before a terrified, floundering fourteen year old and quietly taught him how to run an Institute.

It’s Isaiah who had stood at Alec’s right shoulder in this very cathedral during the funeral of the first Shadowhunter to die under Alec’s command. It’s Isaiah who had brought Alec into his private rooms and showed him how to lather his face and use a straight blade to shave the newly appeared stubble on his chin.

It’s Isaiah who Alec had come to, shaking but resolute, to tell him that he would never marry a woman, and it was Isaiah who had sat Alec down and explained to him that that was okay.

“Had Raziel seen fit to bless Sarah and I with a child, I could not _possibly_ be prouder of them, could not possibly _love_ them, more than I do Alec.” And Isaiah _swears_ he feels a slim hand on his shoulder, a brush of lips against his cheeks in silent approval. “He is my son in heart, merciful Zadkiel, and I beg of you a single favor this night.”

He thinks of what Alec has willingly delivered himself too and bows even more deeply before the angel. He will be there for his Head, for his _son,_ no matter the cost to his own soul, no matter how much it will destroy anything left of Isaiah’s sanity to have failed both his wife and child-by-heart so deeply, to have to hold Alec … after, to help him put himself back together after having something so intrinsic violently stolen from him, however pretty a face the terms of the agreement had put upon the act itself.

“I will bear whatever trial you ask in return, most benevolent angel, but _please …_ spare him this pain.”

________________

High Warlock Bane, an unspeakably powerful figure in their society and the undisputed leader of the united New York Downworld, lives in relatively modest apartment building in Brooklyn. Isaiah doesn’t know exactly what he was expecting, but the rows of neatly labeled buzzers and the water-stained flyers for two competing dog walkers taped to the door was most certainly not it.

He chooses not to ring Bane’s button, slipping into the building unseen behind a petite brunette attempting (and mostly failing) to juggle three bags of groceries. Glamoured, she doesn’t notice Isaiah, but he takes a moment to surreptitiously return a single lemon that had escaped its paper sack to its proper place for her anyways.

Isaiah had felt the lightning-prick of wards wash over him nearly a full block away, so he knows the High Warlock is aware of his presence as he starts up the steps to the penthouse.

That’s okay. He isn’t trying for stealth.

Isaiah is dressed simply in the under-layers of his patrol gear, boots heavy on his feet. His over shirt is still abandoned on the floor of the cathedral, forgotten after his hours-long vigil, but he’d had a plain, long-sleeved black shirt on beneath; adequate, if barely, for the evening chill.

The wards _here_ though, the close-protection, are near visible in their power, a sheet of opalescent blue overlaying itself before the High Warlocks’s door in Isaiah’s Sight. It tickles as he knocks.

Bane’s face is utterly blank when he opens his door and Isaiah doesn’t hesitate before introducing himself. Their people have been at war or teetering on the brink of it far too long for an unannounced visit to necessarily bode well.

“Isaiah Brownfoot,” he says flatly, eyes taking in the warlock before him. “Deputy Head of the New York Institute.”

The warlock is dressed formally, silk tunics over tight leggings and dripping in jewelry. His necklaces and the open neckline of his shirt are artistically arranged to display the set of red marks bordering his neck.

Isaiah doesn’t offer his hand. Not yet.

Bane surveys him critically, eyes traveling from the raised scar twisting its way diagonally down his face to the hands clasped behind Isaiah’s back in a loose parade rest. What’s more important, though, is what Isaiah knows Bane _doesn’t_ see.

Isaiah is unarmed, seraph blade and dagger alike left in his office, only the slimmest of hold-out blades, one far too short for fighting, tucked away in his boot. A foolish decision, perhaps, one Alec and Andrew alike would castigate him for if they knew, but Isaiah is old and has enough tricks up his sleeve to consider it worth the risk. For this meeting to work, he can’t be armed and he’s well able to handle himself barehanded if it’s truly needed.

“Magnus Bane, High Warlock of the Downworld.” The introduction is finally returned, brown eyes narrowed in unhidden scrutiny. “Although I believe you already knew that.”

“I did, yes.” Isaiah doesn’t budge.

The warlock eyes him again. “You’re Alexander’s second-in-command,” Isaiah manages not to blink in surprise at Bane’s use of Alec’s full name, “and given the lack of notice on his part, I’m guessing he doesn’t know you’re here.”

“No, he doesn’t.” Isaiah doesn’t see any need to equivocate.

Bane sighs, standing aside from where he’d been blocking the way into his apartment. “I suppose you’d better come in then. I imagine whatever conversation you’re here to have is ill-suited for my hallway.”

Walking past the High Warlock, Isaiah passes through the close-wards on his actual home, an electric shock stinging under his tongue. A voyance rune burning on his thigh, Isaiah can see and sense the ebb and flow of magic as closely as any nephilim is ever able.

Stepping into the apartment, Isaiah is helpless but to feel his shoulders relax and tension he hadn’t realized was still corded through his muscles begin to release. Even after a single day, Bane’s loft is already tinged with the warm caramel and smoke of pleased and content omega, the faint notes of which Isaiah only associates with Alec at his most happy, together with his family and his people safe.

He can’t stop himself from breathing in deeply, letting the reminder that Zadkiel had most surely watched over his Head and his child-by-heart last night settle into his bones.

Bane eyes him, the beginnings of displeasure evident in the hint of a scowl twisting his lips.

Wordlessly, Isaiah takes a set on the couch the other alpha gestures him to before sprawling artfully himself on an adjacent settee. Isaiah is nowhere near idiotic enough to believe the careful impression of dismissal and inattention the pose strives to provide. A single threatening move towards Bane and Isaiah has no doubt the resultant magical backlash would be instantaneous and brutal. This is a man well-used to nephilim arrogance and their often casual violence to his race.

“Last night,” Isaiah begins, his voice breaking the silence in the otherwise still loft, “I had to request that Underhill escort you through the Institute instead of me, when it was, by right, _my_ duty because I was not certain I could stop myself from running you through with a blade the moment I saw you.”

Bane doesn’t so much as blink, but he goes entirely, _utterly,_ still. The voyance rune on Isaiah’s thigh burns in warning that power is being gathered.

“I’m old, High Warlock, and I lived through the monstrosities of Valentine’s Uprising too. They may have targeted your people for genocide, perpetrated _barbaric_ acts of mutilation and torture on your kind, but you would have to be far more naive than your position would allow to believe that those capable of committing such atrocities without any _trace_ of regret would restrain themselves to only going after one target.”

Bane watches, power still shimmering invisibly around his hands, but he makes no move of aggression. There’s no _surprise_ in his eyes either.

“No, I am well aware that the Circle only cared for blood and pain,” Magnus acknowledges quietly. “My people’s race was an excuse, a way to find certain acts _acceptable,_ but we fought back too well, _hid_ too well, for them to always slake their cruelty on us alone.”

Isaiah nods, seeing the _knowledge_ in the warlock’s eyes. “I have held too many,” he continues, “failed at comforting too many as they screamed their pain in my arms.” He holds Magnus’ gaze. “And if it had been my life alone at risk last night, I would have slit my own throat before allowing my Head to become another.”

The gathered magic dissolves and Magnus finally drops his insouciant sprawl.

“Your _Head_?” He questions, and Isaiah knows his scent is too revealing for anyone to believe this conversation a result of duty alone, the memories of anguish too fresh in his mind.

“I spent last night on my knees,” Isaiah answers, “ _begging_ for Zadkiel to show his mercy, _pleading_ that the cost Alec had promised to pay for his people’s lives would not break him in a way from which he may never recover.”

Bane is blinking rapidly in front of him now, suppressed emotion brightening his eyes in a liquid shimmer.

“And today, my-“ Isaiah pauses for a breath before continuing, but hiding behind loyalty and duty is useless when the only reason he sits here is love. “Today my heart-child, my _son_ , comes back from the home of the alpha who _bought his services_ and declares him his True Mate. Declares that they are going to change the world together.” He breathes in, muscles tense.

“And so I came here to find out truly if the Angel of Mercy has answered my prayers or if my duty as his Second, to support him and preserve the peace, must be weighed against my duty as his..” And Isaiah trails off because naming Alec as his son is somehow _different_ than naming _himself_ as Alec’s .. father.

“As the one who raised him and as the Alpha He Looks To,” Magnus finishes for him, the latter description a clear title, a _parental_ title from a race where nearly all familial relationships are by choice and adoption.

“Yes,” Isaiah eventually agrees, something settling within him at that verbal recognition of his place in Alec’s life.

The release of power when Magnus finally _understands,_ when Magnus suddenly drops every glamour clinging to his skin, sight and scent alike, is jarring with Isaiah's runic perception as enhanced as it still is.

Isaiah’s near-instant reaction - “Alec always _has_ been a cat person” - is almost entirely a result of the sheer rush of _perception_ streaking lightning-bright through his veins at the unfiltered glimpse of the High Warlock’s magic and Isaiah freezes, eyes wide, because he did _not_ mean to say that.

Magnus, thankfully, just barks out a startled laugh, reigning in slightly the explosion of power. A tendril of questing magic prods Isaiah lazily and the Shadowhunter knows the moment Magnus senses the active rune and realizes what had happened.

Quickly becoming serious again though, Magnus lets his scent strengthen until Isaiah can judge the full truth of what he’s about to say.

“I’m sure Alec has told you that I had no intention of _taking_ what was offered to me.”

“He has, although I was unsure whether or not to believe it. I’ve known men in your place before, High Warlock, who would use any honeyed words they pleased if it would get them a willing omega in their bed.”

Isaiah holds up a quelling hand at the sudden fury in Magnus’ golden eyes.

“A True Mate’s scent would blind even the most level-headed among us. It’s said the Angel brings together fated pairs, but I’ve had little faith in their _mercy_ since my wife died screaming and insensate from Shax poison, High Warlock. Forgive me, but I needed to _know._ ”

Magnus calms, slowly, and Isaiah waits.“I’m sorry for your loss,” Magnus murmurs.

“It was fifteen years ago,” Isaiah says simply.

“That doesn’t make it any easier to bear, I would imagine.”

Isaiah swallows, hearing the weight of experience in Magnus’ words. “Thank you.”

“I made a mistake, a grave one, in not reading the fire messages that had been sent,” Magnus goes back to their earlier conversation. “I don’t know if I will ever be able to apologize for that enough, but I am so _unspeakably_ grateful for my error because it brought me _Alec._ ”

Magnus scrubs a hand over his face and Isaiah can see the mingled disbelief and joy at the events of the last twenty-four hours. He sympathizes, feeling much the same at the sudden swing from anguished helplessness to sheer joy and relief.

“My people _cherish_ omegas, I- I cannot even begin to describe the honor it is for Alec to have chosen and accepted _me_ as his mate.”

Magnus blinks rapidly, nearly overcome. “I’ll ask for neither your blessing nor your permission until I have done enough to _earn_ it, but I swear to you that I will treat the child of your heart with the respect and honor he is due. I know our union will be .. _anathema_ to the Clave,” and Isaiah has to snort because that is most certainly an understatement, “but I will stand behind him and at his side, as will my people, in all ways. I will not let our joining harm him.”

And Magnus slowly bows his head, baring his neck in an act that Isaiah imagines the alpha has not done before another since well before he took the High Warlock title so many decades ago.

“If ever I break this vow, I pledge no resistance to any recompense you choose should my mated omega not deliver it upon me himself.”

Isaiah breathes in deeply, reading the layers of unguarded emotion in the air and settles himself back in his seat, waiting for Magnus to raise his head back to level.

“Alec requires no permission from me,” he finally says, “but the both of you _do_ have my blessing.”

Magnus’ eyes widen sharply.

“I’ve always been terrified that Alec would find his true mate in someone that views him in the way the Clave espouses,” Isaiah admits. “And I have no words for how grateful _I_ am that Alec has found a mate that wants Alec standing at their side and not waiting at their back.”

Isaiah doesn’t know how to describe the fullness in his heart at knowing his heart-child will have someone there for him, _always._ It’s everything Isaiah has ever wanted for him.

“I have never seen him so happy as he was this morning,” Isaiah explains softly. “I have never seen him with so little weight on his shoulders. I would give my blessing to _any_ mating that would make him smile as though every problem in the world has floated away on the breeze.”

Magnus swallows roughly, throat tight as he forces a liquid shimmer back from his eyes.

"Thank you," is all he can manage to say in turn.

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers: For the first few scenes in this fic, Isaiah believes that Alec is being raped because of the misunderstanding that occurs in Aria's main fic. This DOES NOT occur and everything that happens between Malec is fully consensual. When speaking with Magnus later though, Isaiah does briefly mention having comforted other unnamed assault victims in the past. 
> 
> A note on comments: I adore interacting with you all in my comment section so much. I _love_ hearing what parts you liked the best, reading what lines you copy and paste into a comment that you particularly enjoyed, and I love sharing additional head canons or sequel plans in response. Comments are a huge part of why I continue to write. They make my day! I don’t want to make anyone anxious about commenting or anything like that, but, please, if you’re going to comment? Be nice. I specifically request no negative comments, including criticism, constructive or otherwise.
> 
> All my love,  
> Laws
> 
> Follow me on [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/lawsofchaos1)
> 
> 🌻🌻❤️Kudos make me smile, but comments make my day! ❤️🌻🌻


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